Page 6 of Night Shift

Rage floods my veins like wildfire, so hot and horrible it makes my eyes sting.

“You’re wrong.”

“Am I?”

No, a voice in my head whispers. “Abso-fucking-lutely.”

I stare at him. He stares back. And then, just once—so quick I could blink and miss it—Vincent’s self-assured gaze flickers to my mouth.

“Prove it.”

It’s like the world tilts beneath my feet. Like suddenly I’m Alice down the rabbit hole or Lucy Pevensie through the wardrobe—a girl stumbling headfirst into a fantasy.

Maybe it’s the challenge sparkling in Vincent’s dark eyes, or maybe it’s my anger that makes me so brave, so determined to show him that he doesn’t know shit. Because one moment I’m glaring at him, chest heaving and heart hammering, and the next moment I’m up on my tiptoes with my hands braced on his shoulders and my fingernails digging deep into the cotton of his black T-shirt. Like I can punish him for being so utterly infuriating, so full of himself that he had the nerve to psychoanalyze me in my own sacred space.

I kiss him. Hard.

Vincent groans against my mouth, his lips parting against mine and his chest rumbling beneath my palms. For a moment I’m proud, because I think I’ve surprised him, but then I feel the Velcro of his wrist brace snag my shirt and realize his injured arm is trapped between us.

I peel myself off him and stumble back a step.

Did I really just do that?

“Oh, fuck, I’m sorry,” I say, breathless and mortified. “Is your arm—”

I don’t even get to finish the question.

Vincent drops Engman’s Anthology. The moment it lands at our feet with a heavy thud, his now-unoccupied hand circles the back of my neck. Vincent may be built like a brick wall, but there’s a gentleness in the way his hand anchors me. It’s not demanding. It’s a patient, supportive touch.

He gives my neck a soft squeeze, silently asking me to meet his eyes. I do. There’s a fire burning in them that matches the fire in me.

“Stop apologizing,” he says, very seriously, “and try that again.”

This is wild.

How is he making me feel like I’m the one in charge here? Like I’m the one calling the shots? Because by all accounts, Vincent is the one holding me together in one hand while my body threatens to shatter.

“I’ve never kissed anyone sober,” I admit, my entire face flushing with heat.

Vincent’s face softens.

“Then practice on me,” he offers. “I’m here. I’m all yours.”

He doesn’t try to press the matter or talk me into it. Instead, he holds still and steady for me—like a rock I can cling to in the crashing waves of my anxieties—and gives me the time I need to collect my thoughts.

I want to kiss him. That’s a given. And unless Vincent is the world’s most convincing liar, he’s definitely open to the idea of kissing me too. But my scrambled brain can’t make sense of the equation. Normal people don’t make out within ten minutes of meeting each other unless they’re drunk off their asses—even if those ten minutes include some heated banter and reading sonnets in a dark corner of a nearly empty library.

Real life is never like the novels.

What’s the catch?

Vincent misreads my hesitation. “If you’re not into this, you can go back to your book. My ego can take the hit, I promise. But don’t hold out on me because you’re scared.”

The fire in me reignites. “I’m not—”

Vincent’s hand squeezes my neck again, more urgently. “Then come here,” he murmurs.

Fuck it, I tell myself. Yes, my hair is a mess and my makeup is several hours old. Yes, the fluorescent lights and dingy carpet aren’t exactly setting the mood. I wish I felt more put-together, more prepared to be held and touched.

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